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Henry Timrod was born December 8, 1828, in Charleston, South Carolina, and died October 7, 1867, in Columbia, South Carolina. He was an American poet often called the “Poet of the Confederacy.”
His family background shaped his literary leanings. His father, William Henry Timrod, was an amateur poet and bookbinder whose shop was a meeting place for writers and thinkers in Charleston. Young Henry studied at the Classical School of Christopher Cotes, where his classmates included Paul Hamilton Hayne. He later went to the University of Georgia for a short time but had to drop out due to financial difficulties and ill health. Before the war, he worked as a tutor and teacher on plantations in South Carolina, and wrote poems for local periodicals.
When the Civil War broke out, Timrod returned to Charleston and became publicly involved. He published patriotic poems that encouraged enlistment in the Confederacy. He attempted to enlist in the Confederate army but had to step back because of health issues (tuberculosis). He also worked for a time as a war correspondent for a Charleston newspaper. Even though he was not a front-line soldier, his poetic voice became one of the Southern literary voices of the war.
Timrod’s wartime poems include *“Ethnogenesis,” “The Cotton Boll,” and “Ode: Sung on the Occasion of Decorating the Graves of the Confederate Dead.” and *(After the war, Timrod faced poverty and declining health. His subject matter shifted somewhat—still reflecting the war, but also nature, loss, memory.
He died of tuberculosis in 1867 at age 38 or 39. After his death, his friend and fellow poet Paul Hamilton Hayne edited his poems and helped preserve his literary reputation. His works became part of Southern literary memory and are often anthologized among American poetry.
Timrod is associated with the Romantic tradition and with Southern regionalism. His style is not radically experimental, but he is admired for combining lyricism with sentiment, patriotic feeling, and attention to nature. Because of his alignment with the Confederacy, his work is controversial today, but his place in 19th-century American poetry remains significant.
His military role was limited—he was never a combat soldier—but his poetry and brief service connected him to the conflict more as a literary voice than as a fighter.
Timrod’s legacy is twofold. He is remembered as the “Poet Laureate of the South” or “Poet of the Confederacy,” a title given to him posthumously, though unofficial. His poems remain part of Southern and American literary history, included in anthologies, studied in literary scholarship, and sometimes used in cultural memory—his poem “Carolina” is even set as the lyrics of South Carolina’s state song.
Though his life was short and his health precarious, Timrod left behind a body of work that connects poetry to history, identity, loss, and memory. His voice is tied to a specific time and place, and in reading his poems today, readers confront both his skill and the difficult legacy he carries.
You may learn more at the Poetry Foundation and Wikipedia.
Henry Timrod – Poet of the Confederacy
I’m pleased to announce that we’ve added a significant—and often overlooked—voice of the American Civil War era to our collection: Henry Timrod and, in particular, his war-time poetry. The volume we’re drawing from is Poems of Henry Timrod; with Memoir. What…
Song Composed for Washington’s Birthday,
Henry Timrod
and Respectfully Inscribed to the Officers and Members of the
Washington Light Infantry of Charleston, February 22, 1859
Christmas
Henry Timrod
How grace this hallowed day?
Shall happy bells, from yonder ancient spire,
Send their glad greetings to each Christmas fire
Ode Sung on the Occasion of Decorating the Graves of the Confederate Dead, at Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S.C., 1867
Henry Timrod
I
Sleep sweetly in your humble graves,
The Two Armies
Henry Timrod
Two armies stand enrolled beneath
The banner with the starry wreath;
One, facing battle, blight and blast,
Carmen Triumphale
Henry Timrod
Go forth and bid the land rejoice,
Yet not too gladly, O my song!
Breathe softly, as if mirth would wrong
The Unknown Dead
Henry Timrod
The rain is plashing on my sill,
But all the winds of Heaven are still;
And so it falls with that dull sound
Ethnogenesis
Henry Timrod
Written During the Meeting of the First Southern Congress,
at Montgomery, February, 1861
Ripley
Henry Timrod
Rich in red honors, that upon him lie
As lightly as the Summer dews
Fall where he won his fame beneath the sky
A Cry to Arms
Henry Timrod
Ho! woodsmen of the mountain side!
Ho! dwellers in the vales!
Ho! ye who by the chafing tide
Charleston
Henry Timrod
Calm as that second summer which precedes
The first fall of the snow,
In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds,
Carolina
Henry Timrod
I
The despot treads thy sacred sands,
Hymn Sung at a Sacred Concert at Columbia, S.C.
Henry Timrod
I
Faint falls the gentle voice of prayer
Storm and Calm
Henry Timrod
Sweet are these kisses of the South,
As dropped from woman’s rosiest mouth,
And tenderer are those azure skies
Hymn Sung at the Consecration of Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S.C.
Henry Timrod
Whose was the hand that painted thee, O Death!
In the false aspect of a ruthless foe,
Despair and sorrow waiting on thy breath–
Hymn Sung at an Anniversary of the Asylum of Orphans at Charleston
Henry Timrod
We scarce, O God! could lisp thy name,
When those who loved us passed away,
And left us but thy love to claim,
Dreams.
Henry Timrod
Who first said “false as dreams”? Not one who saw
Into the wild and wondrous world they sway;
No thinker who hath read their mystic law;
1866–Addressed to the Old Year
Henry Timrod
Art thou not glad to close
Thy wearied eyes, O saddest child of Time,
Eyes which have looked on every mortal crime,
The Past.
Henry Timrod
To-day’s most trivial act may hold the seed
Of future fruitfulness, or future dearth;
Oh, cherish always every word and deed!
Too Long, O Spirit of Stor
Henry Timrod
Too long, O Spirit of Storm,
Thy lightning sleeps in its sheath!
I am sick to the soul of yon pallid sky,
A Prize Poem
Henry Timrod
A fairy ring
Drawn in the crimson of a battle-plain–
From whose weird circle every loathsome thing
The Cotton Boll
Henry Timrod
While I recline
At ease beneath
This immemorial pine,
Spring
Henry Timrod
Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air
Which dwells with all things fair,
Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain,
To Time, the Old Traveler
Henry Timrod
They slander thee, Old Traveler,
Who say that thy delight
Is to scatter ruin, far and wide,